


salt makes the eating of salt sweet

by robokittens



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Cool Just Checking, Crossdressing, Everything Being Sad for No Reason?, Femdom, M/M, No One is Sick of James in a Dress Yet Right?, Or of Francis Eating Ass?, Post-Episode: s01e04 Punished as a Boy, Rimming, canon-typical alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: Francis is, he knows, a selfish man at heart. That he should derive so much pleasure, so muchpride, from reducing someone to their base desires with only his hands and his mouth: that is as much sin, surely, as the act itself. But in this moment, with Fitzjames writhing against him, making the sorts of noises a man makes when he is biting on his own first, Francis cannot bring himself to care.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Past Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier
Comments: 26
Kudos: 89





	salt makes the eating of salt sweet

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, once again, to reserve. someday i will learn to write fic without you (maybe) 😘
> 
> and to the good ship f.b, for your contributions to the cause and also bullying me when appropriate

Francis has seen the way Fitzjames looks at him. _Save your pity_ , he'd said, but it's not only pity in Fitzjames' eyes: it’s there, certainly, but also sorrow, and a sort of … intrigue, nearly. Something speculative. Francis would say he hopes Fitzjames isn't plotting to overthrow him, but truly, would that be so bad? Let him have the run of both ships, and Francis can sit in the dark and drink himself to death.

He knows that's what Fitzjames thinks he's doing, and he's not half wrong. It has been a long week — it has been a long few years; a long _lifetime_ , were he to permit himself a touch of melodrama. _Melodrama_. He snorts into his whisky. Damned Fitzjames. He sticks in Francis' head no matter how much Francis tries to ignore him, tries to avoid him; no matter how often he uses poor Little as an intermediary or Jopson as a barricade.

As if summoned by Francis' very thoughts, Jopson pokes his head into the wardroom with a quiet, "Sir?" The look Francis fixes him with is less charitable than he deserves.

"What is it, Jopson," he grumbles. He cuts his eyes away, glaring at the table before he can see any pity in _Jopson_ 's eyes. That is more than he can bear.

"Commander Fitzjames is here." He has the decency to sound apologetic at least, and does not elaborate or question when Francis only gestures for Fitzjames to enter in response. Francis reaches for the decanter and refills his glass, though it had hardly been empty; better for Fitzjames to see him with a full glass than see him drink another, although it is unlikely Fitzjames would believe this were his first.

A clearing of the throat: Fitzjames stands before him, a bundle of fabric under one arm. He looks cocksure in a way Francis has — to his consternation; he never meant to learn Fitzjames' moods — come to know means he's about to do something foolhardy. 

"What is it," Francis says. He knows he's glowering, knows he's sulking, knows he's not behaving in any way befitting a captain, nor any way that would impress his authority upon his second. Then, it is surely too late for that.

Fitzjames turns back to the door and says something to Jopson, too low to hear; Jopson nods solemnly in response, and closes the door solidly behind himself. 

Francis sighs. "Whatever you have to say to me, you might as well say to Jopson. He knows it all, and there's no way you don't know _that_."

"Does he?" Fitzjames hums thoughtfully, in a way that finally drags Francis' gaze away from the table. There's that speculative look again: knowing and wondering, and a sort of hunger behind it. For the command, Francis would have thought even half a year ago, but Fitzjames has changed since then. Grown for the better, even as Francis has sunk to something worse. If nothing else, Fitzjames still has dreams. He still has hope.

Fitzjames crosses the room and pulls out a chair at Francis' table. He doesn't sit, however, depositing his cargo there instead and leaning on the back of it, perilously close to Francis himself. If the ship were still moving, perhaps Francis would be concerned; mired in the ice, he finds himself only disappointed to not hear the clink of glass bottles in whatever Fitzjames has carried from Erebus.

"What do you want?" he asks finally. It's more a complaint than a question, but Fitzjames has been regarding him more than long enough, and too solemnly by half.

"When she refused you," Fitzjames says slowly, but whatever the end of that sentence is meant to be, it is cut off by the scrape of Francis' chair across the floor.

"You will not speak of her," Francis growls. The intensity of his own voice surprises him, and the speed with which he had drawn himself to his feet, and he sees the same reaction mirrored in Fitzjames' eyes. Fitzjames extends a placating hand as if to stop him, then appears to think better of it, fingers returning to where they had curled on the chair back. 

He makes no reply. The stoop to his stance is nearly apologetic, but the intensity with which he looks at Francis is no such thing, although it has lost the surety of earlier. 

"I meant no offense," he says after a moment. There's a sort of coltish grace to his apology, as if he were new to such a thing, still clumsy at it. "I only meant to say — when you were parted from …" He hesitates, perhaps afraid to say the name. "Miss Cracroft, I wonder if there was something other than her … affections that you missed. Or, rather — if you'll pardon the …" 

It is a rare delight to watch Fitzjames stumble over his words, or indeed doubt them as they pass his lips. 

" _Pardon the_ what, Fitzjames?" There is none of that delight in his words, roughened by anger as well as the whisky, his eyes narrowed; Fitzjames does not flinch from him, but it looks as though he might.

"If there was something she may have done for you," Fitzjames manages eventually. "Something that, perhaps, I could provide also. In her stead. Until …" He swallows, uneven. "Until we return to England."

Francis scoffs. He picks up his glass again and takes a healthy sip, glaring at Fitzjames as he puts the whisky back on the table. "Will we return? And if we do … what accolades await us there, Fitzjames? Tell me that. What will commanding a failed expedition, the Passage unfound, men dead, _Sir John_ lost — what will any of that do, tell me, to win her hand where I could not before?"

"But you had her heart," Fitzjames says, nearly too quiet to be heard. "Did you not?"

Each time Francis laughs, he notes how much more bitter it sounds; he wonders when the last time he laughed with true humor was. "I had something of her, at any rate." The words impugn Sophia's virtue as well as a more explicit explanation would have, but Fitzjames does not flinch at that either.

"Then let me give you that," Fitzjames says. 

That, at last, startles Francis into silence. Startles him beyond the telling; his jaw does not drop, but his lips part, as if there was some response — any at all — to Fitzjames' words. 

Fitzjames, at last, peels his hands from the back of the chair. He takes a step toward Francis, and then another; it is not so far a distance to cross, but Francis feels distinctly every heartbeat, every breath, before Fitzjames is close enough to cup Francis' rough cheek in his broad, calloused hand. His hands feel warm, which is sign enough that it is Francis' own face, rather, that is flushed, but it is the texture that surprises him. If he had given thought to Fitzjames' hands he would have assumed them soft, delicate — like a woman's. Although he has seen Fitzjames at work. As though even a woman, here, could keep her hands safe from the elements.

There is nothing delicate, here at the end of the world. Nothing but the way Fitzjames touches him, or the look in his eyes. Or his voice as he says, softly, "Let me take care of you. As she would. Were she here."

"James," Francis breathes out. He can see Fitzjames' eyes widen at the use of his Christian name, or at the way Francis says it. "Do you know what you ask … what you _offer_."

"I have some idea." Fitzjames ducks his head in; the bit of height he has on Francis has never seemed so apparent as it does now, as that distance between them closes until Francis can feel Fitzjames' breath on his own lips. It occurs to him that his own breath must be liquor-sour; Fitzjames smells like nothing so much as cold, fresh air. He moves as slow as the ice itself, and as surely, until his lips barely graze Francis' own. And then he pulls away.

"James —" Francis tries again; he means it as a protest, but it comes out a plea. Fitzjames smiles at him wryly, more himself than when he'd faltered over his earlier words; more himself now that he knows he has Francis where he wants him.

Fitzjames' eyes flick toward the wardroom door. "Your Jopson," he says. "Is he as adept at — well." His smile turns, a more melancholy knowing. "He's certainly kept me out often enough. May I make use of your bed cabin?" Though phrased as a request, Francis knows well it is not, and remains silent, only a slight nod of the head, as Fitzjames takes his measure. "Join me there, when I tell you to."

"Of course," Francis says. His voice is still rough, he can hear it himself, but as well as the drink this time it is just as much desire.

Fitzjames collects his bundle from the chair. He pauses at the door to Francis' cabin, and for a moment Francis thinks Fitzjames may turn and look at him. Might, perhaps, say something. But the pause is only for a moment, and then the door slides open and Fitzjames lets himself in.

Francis turns back to the table, braces himself against it and closes his eyes. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and then another. He eyes his glass of whisky, still half full; it would be a shame to waste it, but — Fitzjames has never approved of Francis' drinking, or at least not its frequency; he is no teetotaler, but in this moment he did not seem prone to suffer any habit of Francis' he might find foolish.

He glances at the door — at _his_ door — then turns back, keeping his eyes on the table. It seems … improper, to even guess at what Fitzjames is doing. And Sophia — well. She never would have him do anything improper … unless, that was, it was something she wanted. Francis feels his ears going red just at the thought of it. 

How Fitzjames had sussed this out about him … he would hate to think anything about the nature of their relationship — of his relationship with Sophia, such as it was — was public. And certainly some of the more … delicate aspects … even Sir John, certainly, would not have — _could_ not have. And would never have told Fitzjames.

Francis forces himself to take a deep breath, and then another. He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth a thin, determined line. He exhales, and hears a knocking on the door.

He straightens up, nearly calls out to Jopson to see what matter needs to be attended to, when he realizes the knock has come from behind him. His cabin door, and behind it: Fitzjames. He knocks again, louder, and Francis starts; he does call out then, but more softly: "James? Are you —"

"Hurry," Fitzjames says, tone clipped. There is no real urgency behind the word, but it could not be more clear that it's an order to be followed. 

Francis puts a hand on the door, afraid for a moment what might be behind it when he slides it open. But he hasn't gotten this far by being a coward — cowardice serves no man in the Discovery Service, and here least of all. He opens the door. 

Fitzjames' back is to him, but that makes not a whit of difference to the sight before Francis, and he shuts the door behind himself far more quickly than he'd opened it. Francis' cabin is not large, even by the standards of the ship; he'd never minded, as it was large enough for a bed, and for what else did he even need a cabin? The bit of privacy was hard-earned, but he'd never cared terribly much about it … before now.

He tries to say Fitzjames' name, but it sticks in his throat. The rustle of crinoline cannot bring his voice forth; quite the opposite, in fact. Fitzjames is …

He cuts quite the figure, from behind. Imposingly tall for a woman, hair not quite long enough to pin up in the fashion he's attempted, and Francis can't be sure if the slimness of his waist is due to a corset or the width of the skirts, the way the fabric shades to a darker green at the waist, or — he swallows heavily — if that's just Fitzjames' natural figure. When Fitzjames turns, finally, to look at him …

"Francis," he says, pleasant, easy as breathing. Francis isn't finding it so easy to breathe.

"James," he says finally. It takes longer than he feels it should to get the word out, stretches it into an unnecessary number of syllables.

From the front, Fitzjames looks like … himself. With his hair pinned up, save the one loose curl that twines against his cheek, Francis can see the same face as always: the strong jaw; the pale lips; the lined cheeks; no makeup to alter or disguise it. There's a pleased look in his eyes, like he's telling one of his God-forsaken stories; an eager look, like he's waiting for someone to tell him how clever he is. 

And someone would, someone always would. But it can't be Francis, not now: he'd never been the one to stoke Fitzjames' ego, but more than that … the neckline of the dress is more than low enough to show off the hollow of his throat, usually hidden beneath cravats and layers of starched collars; his collarbones, sharper and more shadowed than Francis would have expected; the width of his shoulders and the broad expanse of his chest.

Francis can't bring himself to speak the words, but if he could have: beautiful. Stunning, certainly; he feels nothing if not stunned. Awe-inspiring. Elegant, somehow, though not at all delicate. He's sure everything he isn't saying shows on his face, if the knowing smile Fitzjames bears is any indication. 

The comfort with which Fitzjames wears the thing … this is hardly his first voyage, of course, and someone so young and fresh-faced and long-haired — and at 33! Francis has never looked so young — would surely have been called upon to play the woman's parts in any ship-board entertainment, prior to his promotion; he remembers all too well how often his own James had been tasked with just that thing. 

But there is an ease to the way Fitzjames moves that speaks to more than that. He comes closer to Francis — and there is not much closer to get! The few steps he has to take to cross the cabin should not seem so languid, nor so natural.

"What do you want, Francis?" Fitzjames sounds kind enough when he speaks, but the words stick in Francis' throat. Unable to reply, he can only stare at Fitzjames as his smile turns into a _moue_ of disappointment, as he continues speaking: "And do you deserve it? Have you … earned it?"

Francis stumbles backward, barely catching himself against the wall before he can walk right into it. His mouth is dry, his voice as rasp: "I don't know, madam. Have I?" The _madam_ slips out unbidden, but Fitzjames looks in no way displeased. He reaches out with the long arm, the knobbly fingers, of a man; he brushes the very tips of those fingers against Francis' jaw. Francis can barely breathe. 

"I'm not sure you have, Francis." Fitzjames' voice sounds amused and disappointed at the same time, somehow, as if he had predicted Francis' failure and is as pleased to be right as he is displeased by the same. For a moment Francis fears that it is not an act: he would not be surprised if this was how Fitzjames felt about him always; Fitzjames would certainly be _right_ to feel that way — and then Fitzjames draws still closer, fingers tipping Francis' face up. His own head is cocked slightly, taking in the features of Francis' face as if for the first time.

"Would you like to earn it?"

"Please, madam." Francis would not have thought it possible that he could have more difficulty breathing than he had already, but he can feel the shallow, erratic movement of his chest; he can feel his fluttering pulse where Fitzjames clasps his chin, titing it back and forth with a nearly detached interest.

"Do you feel you can?"

"I —" Fitzjames' hand on his jaw tightens, and Francis sucks in a breath. "I would try, madam."

Fitzjames nods as if satisfied, but Francis cannot help the disappointment that rushes through him when Fitzjames lets loose his jaw.

Sincerely: "Will you do what I ask of you?

Francis nods.

Disappointment again: "Let me hear it."

"I —" Francis clears his throat. "I will do what you ask of me. Whatever you ask."

"Well." Fitzjames takes a step back, and then another; his hands grasp lightly at his skirts, pulling them up just enough that he runs no risk of stumbling over them, just enough that Francis catches a glimpse of his boots. They're the same black leather as always, polished to a sheen nearly enough to disguise the scuff at the toe. Nothing so fancy, so elegant as the dress, no silk dyed a rich green to match; his feet are large, the boots the same as always, but Francis' heart races at the sight; his mouth, suddenly, is less dry.

Fitzjames continues, as if he cannot see that Francis' heart is about to beat out of his chest entire. "I am sure whatever task I set you, you will succeed at: you would not wish to disappoint me any further, would you?" The posh set of his voice, which normally drives Francis to madness, drives him wild now in a different way. 

"No." Francis barely gets the word out. Fitzjames is as far as he can get, nearly against the washstand; though the room is small, it is too far. Too far. Francis nearly sinks to his knees; he would crawl there, crawl to Fitzjames, should it please him.

He walks, though, takes a hesitant step and then another when Fitzjames crooks an insouciant finger at him, a summons that leaves no room for theatrics, for anything but expedience. The handful of steps seemed an insurmountable distance from across the room; now, as close as he is to Fitzjames, it feels like he was transported here in an instant, through no action of his own.

Fitzjames takes ahold of him again, hands on either side of Francis' face, and kisses him soundly. Francis has no time to react, certainly no time to breathe; he pants like a dog into Fitzjames' mouth as his own is taken, ravaged, _used_. For his part, Fitzjames looks hardly unaffected when finally he releases Francis and pulls back; his eyes blaze with something Francis can't quite discern.

"You would service me," Fitzjames says. The words that leave his mouth are not quite a command, but they are not a question. His breath is so warm that Francis feels he should be able to see it crystalize in the air. His skin is so warm that Francis feels he might burn alive just for touching it. 

Francis inclines his head, both agreement and deference. "As you —" He clears his throat. "As you require, madam."

The rustle of skirts again, and when Francis dares to look away from Fitzjames' face he sees his hands fisted in the fabric, lifting them up. 

"Anything I require?" 

At Fitzjames' question, Francis' eyes snap up to his face again. "Anything," he swears.

Fitzjames regards him for a long moment and then nods decisively, gesturing toward the ground. Francis folds then, finally, as he has wished to do since he walked in the room; the wooden planks are not gentle on the knees of an old man, but he hardly notices. Fitzjames hitches up his skirts, and then again, far enough that Francis can see he is wearing neither the delicate stockings of a lady nor the rough woolen underthings of a man at sea; there is a tracery of red that creeps up his inner thighs, a result of air cold enough to bite through any number of layers, but despite it the skin there is fine and smooth. Francis would touch it, had he been told he could. He presses his hands to his knees, and keeps them there.

When he meets Fitzjames' eyes, there is something questioning in them. Francis does not trust himself to speak, but he hopes his own eyes say it for him: whatever the question may be, his answer is yes.

Fitzjames, then, turns. Away from Francis.

Francis does not move, _could_ not move, perhaps not even if Fitzjames should bid him to do so. But Fitzjames is not moving any further: rather, he arranges himself on the washstand. From the ground, the skirts of Fitzjames' dress in the way, Francis can hardly see it: the curve of his back, the low dip of his neck. He must be leaning over the basin — arms pressed to the washstand perhaps, head hanging low; were his hair not pinned, it would fall to either side; as it is, his fragile neck would be exposed. Were Francis able to see it.

All he can see, though, is the jut of Fitzjames' hips. The fullness of his skirts. The rough heels of his boots that peek out from underneath. And he can hear the roughness of Fitzjames' voice when he finally speaks, the conversation picked up from where he'd left it, aeons ago when Francis was still standing: "And if I required this of you —"

"Anything, madam." Francis' hands twitch on his knees. He can hear the desire leak through his own voice, supposes it should be embarrassing. "May I …"

"Francis." Fitzjames' voice is very nearly trembling, but more than that it is commanding, a voice made for men to respond to. Francis stops asking questions. Fitzjames' skirts had fallen when he bent over the basin, and Francis reaches under them. The leather of Fitzjames' boots is smooth and supple. Francis' hands creep upward, blind, his eyes fixed on the bow of Fitzjames' back. His skin, when Francis reaches it, is soft, pebbled with gooseflesh. Francis runs one thumb across the space where it emerges from his boot, and he fancies he can see Fitzjames shiver.

Fitzjames shifts his weight just slightly, one hand coming back to hitch up his skirts. Francis, barely breathing, dares to touch the hem of it, to bring it up toward Fitzjames' questing hand. Their fingers brush, and Francis dares not move, unsure if he will be upbraided for the audacity of touching Fitzjames' hand, unsure if he will give in to his own yet more audacious desires to grasp at it more fully.

Fitzjames' hand clenches in the silk. With one long finger he brushes just once the back of Francis' knuckles and then pulls away, bringing the fabric with him.

Francis had known — and known clearly — that Fitzjames wore nothing beneath his dress. It is another thing entirely to see it. The muscles of his thighs are slim enough, but strong; Francis dares to drag his fingers up the back of one, and sees Fitzjames tense at the touch, hears him exhale. 

The room is not lit so very brightly, and it is dimmer with the shadow of Fitzjames' skirts hanging over his head, but he can still see clearly the pale flesh of Fitzjames' arse, the hang of his bollocks, and — he had hardly dared to wonder, but now there is no denying that Fitzjames is hard from this. His prick curves upward, toward his stomach, away from Francis. With his body bent like this, though, the evidence of it is clear.

Francis feels a rush of desire course through him. It is the first time he's thought at all of his own pleasure in — he does not know how long. It doesn't matter though, not now; now what matters is that he's allowed to touch the silk of Fitzjames' arse, that he's been _asked_ to: indeed, _tasked_ with it. And he does, hands gently cupping it, ears alert to any sound Fitzjames might make.

He is quiet, for now: it is only his own harsh breathing, the occasional rustle of petticoats, that Francis hears in the air. And perhaps the breathing is his own.

He leans in. Fitzjames smells — as a man on a ship does. He wonders, for a moment, if this had come earlier in their voyage, would he have smelled differently? Fitzjames seems the sort of man prone to perfumes; Francis had not noticed, but he had so long avoided him as much as possible. Now, though: Fitzjames smells of musk and sweat and the ice, and Francis breathes it in deeply.

It is, ironically, the thought that Fitzjames might chastise him if he takes too long that keeps him from acting, unsure if that is the response he seeks. But Fitzjames says nothing, and Francis is unable to resist any longer; he digs his fingers into the globes of Fitzjames' arse; he presses an open-mouthed kiss to his tailbone.

The breath he hears this time he knows is Fitzjames': a sharp inhale, a shocked exhale.

He keeps his mouth in place, working at this dip in Fitzjames' body, letting the spit pool in his mouth. Letting it drip down to the place where, if he does his job well, Fitzjames will open for him. 

He never notices the creaking and shifting of the ship any longer; hasn't noticed it for months. He hears it now, in this room that's so silent he can almost hear his own heartbeat, can hear the liquid sounds his mouth is making against Fitzjames' body. If he listens closely he thinks he can hear the sounds of Fitzjames' fingers clutching at the wash stand.

"Francis…"

The room is so silent that it sounds like a shout when Fitzjames breathes out his name.

"James," Francis says, a response, an echo, as he moves his way lower, sucking kisses into the scant space left to him of Fitzjames' body before he is inside it. When he reaches the cleft of Fitzjames' arse he digs his teeth into the skin above it: not a bite, nothing so crass; no sort of claim. Just to hear if Fitzjames makes a noise at it (he does, a breath shocked out of him), if he moves (he does, his stance widened, backside pushed further out, a movement so slight Francis would not have noticed had it not been so near).

His first lick at Fitzjames' hole is tentative, then firmer, then more forceful still, feeling out which brings the greatest response. When Fitzjames' breaths remain even, Francis continues at this pace, licking around the rim, broad stripes against his hole that make his thighs tense even if he makes no sound in response. 

His fingers massage Fitzjames' arse, groping at it without shame now, more for his own pleasure than for that of Fitzjames. One hand drops down to grasp at Fitzjames' stones, a very light pressure but enough to make Fitzjames break finally, to make him moan.

Francis had — he had nor been sure, to what extent he was supposed to maintain this fantasy. If Fitzjames was indeed _madam_ , were he _mistress_ , if Francis was supposed to pretend Fitzjames' arse was a lady's delicate quim. But it seems FItzjames has no such compunction. Still: when Francis says "Beautiful," mouth muffled by Fitzjames' arse, he means it.

It is indelicate work but he is not undedicated, sucking at the sweet pucker of Fitzjames' hole to hear him gasp, tugging again at his bollocks to see if Fitzjames' arse contracts with the motion. It does, so Francis only turns himself to his task with more conviction, his spit getting Fitzjames so wet he may as well be a lady after all. He licks at him yet more firmly, tongue circling; he does not speak, but his mouth begs for Fitzjames to open for him.

Fitzjames cries out at last when Francis works his tongue inside. It is not much, not far, but the feeling of the muscle convulsing around him is more almost than _Francis_ can bear. He is glad to hear that Fitzjames is not unaffected. The cry is not terribly loud, but it echoes here: most of the men are gone now, from _Terror_. It is a wonder Fitzjames is here at all. 

It is a wonder _Francis_ is here — here, on this ship; here, now, beneath Fitzjames' … oh, God in Heaven. Beneath Fitzjames' skirts. His tongue quests forward; he has less dexterity with it than he would with his fingers or — he swallows, heavy — less pressure, less force, than he would with his prick. The things he would do to Fitzjames, he realizes now, were Fitzjames to let him. Were Fitzjames to ask him.

He pulls his tongue out, finding it hard to breathe suddenly; he keeps his mouth pressed to Fitzjames, exhaling harshly against him. Fitzjames seems to find this no less satisfying than Francis' more dedicated work, if the twitch in his thigh is anything to go by. 

And so he sits, for just a moment, feeling again the timber beneath his knees, feeling again that it would be worth any pain to push himself into Fitzjames once he has him open. To feel that slick warmth around his prick, pressed perhaps against his nude back, perhaps — perhaps against the lacing, the stays, of the dress he wears. He groans at his own fantasy and then regains himself, reapplies himself: he fastens his mouth around Fitzjames' hole and sucks at it. The suction makes Fitzjames cry out, and more, it makes the hand in his skirts falter, letting them fall.

It had been dark but now it is darker still, crinoline and silk slipping down over his shoulders, and Francis finds himself emboldened. He returns to lapping at Fitzjames' entrance, and dares to touch him with more than just his tongue. He edges along the puffy rim there with a finger, tracing the places where Fitzjames is inflamed and abraded, made sensitive by Francis' mouth.

If Francis' hearing is muffled by the skirts around him or if Fitzjames has been made quiet by decorum or stimulation or both, Francis cannot say, but he knows that had his mouth been free, he would have asked Fitzjames to repeat himself, so he could make certain of what he had heard: "Francis, _please_."

Fitzjames is reduced nearly to begging. Francis slips his finger inside, to the first joint and then further. He licks around it, easing his own way as he pushes into the impossible depths of Fitzjames' body. 

"Francis," Fitzjames says again, above him, pleading. He crooks his finger inside Fitzjames, feeling for that spot he knows well can send sparks up a man's spine; he wants to hear Fitzjames moan again, wants to _make_ him moan. He is rewarded.

Francis is, he knows, a selfish man at heart. That he should derive so much pleasure, so much _pride_ , from reducing someone to their base desires with only his hands and his mouth: that is as much sin, surely, as the act itself. But in this moment, with Fitzjames writhing against him, making the sorts of noises a man makes when he is biting on his own first, Francis cannot bring himself to care. 

The " _Francis_ " is muffled this time, and then again. Fitzjames sounds nearly pained, and Francis eases off; his finger remains inside Fitzjames but ceases its movements, he reaches with his other hand to reluctantly move the skirts from where they cover his head, he pulls his face enough away that he can feel his spit dripping down his own chin.

"What —" He is nearly surprised by how rough his own voice sounds, how hoarse and needful both. "What … madam … what would you ask of me now."

From this vantage point, he can just barely see as Fitzjames raises his head. HIs hair has come loose from its inexpert pins, falling in waves to his shoulders. "Francis, please," he gasps out. "I need — I need you."

"You have me," Francis says. He is glad Fitzjames cannot see him, cannot see his face as he realizes his own sincerity. "Please — my lady —“ He feels Fitzjames shiver forcefully and it presses him onward— “please tell me what you require. What more —"

"Only that," Fitzjames says quietly. "Only … more."

Francis obeys, he moves again. Fitzjames' skirts have fallen over his arm and he cannot see his hand, but he does not need to in order to twist his finger once more inside him, to hear him gasp; to press in with another to hear him gasp further. 

"Is this what you require, madam?" Francis asks. He pushes inward, inward, shocked at how forward he is with his words as well as his hand, but finds himself so consumed with desire that he can't help it. "What else — you've had my mouth, lass. Would you like it again? You have my hand —" and here he crooks his fingers again, relentless, pressing into that delicate spot. Fitzjames shudders above him. "Would you have more of it, madam? More of me, inside you? I would offer you my prick, if you’ll have it. Allow me to fill you up, take you as deeply as you—“ 

The thought alone is nearly too much for him; he feels his prick swell in his trousers as if he had summoned it. 

It _is_ too much for Fitzjames, or at least the motion of his fingers is, the insistent drag against his walls and the pressure Francis puts forth inside him; it is enough, at any rate, for Fitzjames to cry out louder than he can stifle, to arch his back yet further, to clench around Francis' hand so tightly he thinks his fingers might snap with it.

The crinolines, where they'd draped over Francis' head, had been a lighter green than the silk they supported; not so light, however, that Francis could not imagine the splash of Fitzjames' seed across them, soaking the fabric. He wishes suddenly, fiercely, that he had been permitted to take Fitzjames into his mouth in that way, that that seed could be on him, _in him_ , instead. 

"James," he says. _Are you alright_ , he means, and _was I good for you_ , and _What happens now_ , but all he says is Fitzjames' name, and again: "James."

There is a beat of silence just too long, and there is something nearly sad in Fitzjames' voice as he says, "Give me … a moment. Only a moment. To … regain myself."

There is an impulse, an urge, to press on, but instead he says, "Whatever you wish." And he waits: a moment, to let Fitzjames' breathing even out, to let him straighten his spine. His head falls forward again, hair a curtain; Francis could never make out more than a shadow of his face from his angle, but now he can see nothing at all.

There is a sound like Fitzjames intends to speak, an exhale that is nearly the beginning of a word, but does not become one. Francis cannot guess as to what that word may have been. He begins to feel foolish: on his knees, his fingers up his second's arse. There is a hitch in Fitzjames' breathing as he slides them out, but no protest.

"My lady," he begins, softly, and when Fitzjames does not protest that either he continues. "Please, tell me what more may I — what else can I —"

"There is nothing," Fitzjames says. He cannot truly move away, not with Francis so close behind him, not with the cabin walls so near. But there is nonetheless the sense, the palpable sense, that he wishes to be elsewhere.

Francis is too old to be crawling backward, but there is no graceful way to draw himself to his feet. With Fitzjames' back to him, he supposes it matters little, although surely he can hear the uneven steps Francis takes as he rights himself, can hear their echo.

Fitzjames has not moved. He still clutches Francis' washstand — Francis can just make out the clench of his knuckles, so pale they're nearly glowing in this light. He takes a step toward Fitzjames, and when Fitzjames makes no protest he takes another. Even through his long underwear, through his trousers, it seems Francis can feel the silk rustle on his prick as he steps close enough to Fitzjames to touch, to reach out and settle his hands atop Fitzjames'.

Fitzjames does startle, then; he does not buck Francis off, but he does hold himself stiff as Francis leans against him. "Tell me—," Francis begins. He presses his face to the spot where Fitzjames' neck meets his shoulder, to the hair that's draped there. No perfumes, perhaps, but Fitzjames does smell singularly pleasant, here. He pushes closer. “Let me—“

"What — Francis." Fitzjames sounds nearly anguished. "What more could you want?"

The contrast — the softness of Fitzjames' hair, of his skin, and the misery that bleeds through his words — is almost too much to take. "What I — nothing. I only wish to know what _you_ —"

Fitzjames spins around, dislodging Francis' hands from where they rest stop his own, nearly sending him spinning back to the floor. "Stop play-acting, Francis." His words are unexpectedly harsh; his eyes, filled with something not quite anger, not quite remorse. "This was — this was foolish of us. Of _me_. I should never …"

The ferocity with which he cuts himself off makes Francis want to reach for him — clasp him with his hands as he may have Sophia, by the shoulders, to stay him, to reassure him, to keep him close. To touch him, not with desire so much as merely … for connection. 

"Get out," Fitzjames snaps. And before Francis can argue that they're not finished here, that this is _his_ cabin, that if Fitzjames owes him nothing else he must at least explain himself: "I must change, before I return to Erebus. You wouldn't … have me go out there like —" He gestures to himself, a languid hand from his delicate collarbones to where the rough soles of his boots are barely visible beneath the fall of his skirts.

He could, Francis thinks, go anywhere like that. With his head high, no one would dare challenge him. His sort are bred for beauty.

Francis slides the door shut behind himself as quietly as he can. There sits his whisky glass still half-full and he reaches for the decanter, fills it the rest of the way before he takes a trembling seat at his own table. He's filled it again by the time Fitzjames shuffles out of the cabin, looking very nearly respectable. 

Francis considers rising, but does not. He’s swollen, still, in his uniform trousers. He tries not to think of it, to will it away, wary Fitzjames will notice and count it one more strike against him.

"Captain Crozier," Fitzjames says stiffly. A farewell.

Francis scoffs, too loudly in the quiet room, before Fitzjames can get the wardroom door slid open. 

“What,” Fitzjames says, without turning. Francis can hear his sneer. He hopes he can still feel Francis between his thighs.

“You did well,” Francis says to the tabletop. 

“How do you mean?”

“You managed to give me exactly what Miss Cracroft always did in return.” 

“Oh?” 

“Absolutely nothing.” It sounds painfully bitter to his own ears. 

He lifts his head up enough to see Fitzjames slide the door open, his hand clenched into a fist against the wood. He has a drink. 

"Francis —" Fitzjames says. Francis doesn't look over at him, _won't_ look over at him, won't see if there is pity in his face to match his voice. He had said he didn't want it: he still does not.

He looks over at him. He very nearly reaches out, the hand not holding his glass tremulous on the tabletop. He thinks, perhaps, that he might say something, but the moment passes.

Fitzjames sighs. "Have a pleasant night," he says, as if they have anything but nights anymore.

Francis' hand thumps against the table, and his forehead shortly follows it. He had only meant to tell Fitzjames there was a pin still in his hair.


End file.
